


sunlight on a broken column

by Nokomis



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: Eliot’s back, but in the cold light of day all Quentin can see is the Monster.





	sunlight on a broken column

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://nokomiss.tumblr.com/post/184015477922/hi-if-youre-still-taking-prompts-after-the), written for anon, for the prompt _after the Monster is dealt with, Quentin is only able to see Eliot as himself in the dark. Otherwise he just sees the Monster._

In the days after Eliot returns, as life settles into its strange new rhythm, nothing is as Quentin thought it would be. 

That first night, exhausted and overwhelmed and joyous, they’d fallen into bed together, limbs tangling together easily. Eliot had always been the one to drape himself over Quentin, and Quentin had relished the weight of Eliot’s arm across his waist, of Eliot’s chin tucked into the crook of Quentin’s neck. 

Come the cold light of day, all Quentin sees is Eliot’s long unkempt hair and the slackness of his mouth and he recoils.

He remembers saving Eliot, remembers the Monster’s downfall clearly, but he’s spent so long living in fear that he can’t shake it. Can’t just smile and lean down to kiss Eliot awake, like he’d dreamt of so many times.

Instead he scurries out of bed, letting Eliot’s arm slide back onto the mattress carelessly, backing up until he’s sure that Eliot is still asleep. He stumbles into the bathroom and strips, climbing into a too-hot shower that leaves his skin red and tingling, and he keeps absently scrubbing at the spot where Eliot’s arm had rested across his body while he slept.

It isn’t the Monster. It isn’t, Quentin _knows_ that, but the Monster had worn Eliot’s body for so long, had forced Quentin to do so many terrible things, that he can’t quite divorce the two in his mind. He kept seeing blood and death, ice cream and viscera and limp limbs bobbling in dark water, and Eliot doesn’t know, can’t know what all his body had done without his knowledge.

Quentin will keep that knowledge secret for the both of them, could keep Eliot safe from this. 

So he scrubs his skin raw, and smiles at Eliot over breakfast, trying to hide the way he wants to shrink in on himself every time he catches a glimpse of Eliot out of the corner of his eye.

There are still things to be done -- the Library is as ever a problem, and the thing with Julia, and fixing the damage to Fillory -- and Quentin is thankful, because staying busy means that Eliot won’t see how he effects Quentin. There is something delicate and strained between them wrought of love and history, and Quentin can’t lose it. Won’t.

Not the the ghost of a monster.

Eliot throws the t-shirts the Monster had accrued away, started dressing more like himself. Vests, button-downs, fitted trousers replace the soft shapeless things the Monster had worn. He keeps his hair long, but shaves. He resembles himself again, but changed. Something bone-deep has changed. Something in his stance still makes Quentin think of the Monster. There is a slump to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, an awkwardness to his motions where Eliot had always been full of grace. 

He looks like a stranger in his own skin, and Quentin knows he should be reaching out, should be _there_ but he stays his distance.

He hates himself for it, but can’t bring himself to change. From the fragile look in Eliot’s eyes, he thinks Eliot isn’t quite ready either, isn’t nearly as recovered as he pretends. Eliot keeps his own distance, focusing on books and spellwork and Fillory. Avoiding anything that takes away his control -- he abstains from drinking, from Josh’s special treats, from practicing certain spells. 

Quentin sees the changes, knows he should...he should do _more_. 

He draws in on himself, instead. Only stops himself from offering to go on reckless, useless quests because he knows deep down what a waste it would be. That eventually… Eventually, this will fade. It has to.

Margo takes up the slack, filling the silence that falls so easily now with stories and observations, always staying clear of anything that might cut Eliot too deeply. Quentin is grateful for her, but can’t find the words to tell her so.

Days pass, and she corners him. Tells him to take his head out of his ass, tells him how much Eliot needs him, like he somehow doesn’t know. He tries to tell her why he’s falling in on himself, why Eliot’s sad eyes make words of encouragement curdle on his tongue, but some horrors lie best in the past.

But in his heart he knows Margo’s right. He still feels strange and fragile, like a bird with a shattered wing, but he ignores his own discomfort, to offer Eliot the comfort he needs. Ignores the way Eliot tucking his head against Quentin’s shoulder makes him think of a piglet’s cooling blood, ignores the way blood splatter appears behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes.

He remembers who he became, when he fought to get Eliot back, and hopes to find that again. Hopes that determination was a glimpse at who he could be. Knows who he needs to be, to help Eliot drag himself back to who he’s meant to be. 

Holds himself steady and still, when Eliot’s hand on his feels like a shackle, knowing that eventually it’ll fade. Learns to look for the quirk in Eliot’s lip, the curve of his eyebrow, any of the ways that Eliot’s personality shines through. Takes life hour by hour, knowing that eventually… Eventually, he has to return to himself.

Eventually, he’ll look at Eliot in the bright light of day and not be reminded of the coppery scent of blood.

Each night, though, Eliot crawls into his bed, and in the dark the feel of his skin against Quentin’s is nothing at all like the Monster’s. It’s _Eliot_ , through and through. It’s only then, in the absence of light, that Quentin can choke out all the words that have been stuck in his throat for months, all the desperate declarations of need and love and frustration and longing.

And Eliot -- Eliot, his words spill forth just as desperately, and he loves Quentin, too, with a ferocity that takes Quentin’s breath away.

It’s impossible to believe, but feels _true_ in a way nothing has in so long, since the life they’d both lived and died and pushed aside. Quentin falls asleep, sated and happy and loved in Eliot’s arms.

And if, in the cold light of day, he still sees the Monster and how it’s haunting his love….

It’s a small price to pay.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://nokomiss.tumblr.com)


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